


A Different Kind of High

by Consulting Carnation (reluctant_necromancer215)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Cocaine, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eventual recovery, John is angry, Johnlock Angst, M/M, Sherlock is a Mess, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 14:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6287560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctant_necromancer215/pseuds/Consulting%20Carnation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everyone has ghosts. They are the shadows that define our every sunny day..." Sherlock's ghosts have come back to haunt him, and this time he isn't strong enough to fight his demons on his own. As he falls into a torrential spiral of relapse into drug abuse, will the trauma be enough to push him and John together at last?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Kind of High

**Author's Note:**

> So I know I should be updating one of my other fics, but I just NEEDED to write this. So I did. Because I'm a bad mother to my fics. This is actually a reboot of a fic I wrote on fanfiction.net when I was younger, but it was awful so it's had a /lot/ of editing. I hope you enjoy! Please leave a review, I love hearing from you!! Also I am hoping to make this multi-chapter, so let me know if there's something specific you'd love to see in the future :3

In retrospect, it was one of the stupidest mistakes he’d ever made. Well, let’s just say it came in at a close second only to the initial mistake that had put him in this situation. But Sherlock really only had a few numbers in his contacts. His brother, John, Lestrade… And his dealer. And in his current state, hands shaking from the stress of a relapse and vision blurring with chemical dependence, it wasn’t difficult to believe that his thumb had slipped. That a desperate, obvious text intended for his dealer had accidentally been sent flying through cyberspace to the mobile phone of one John Watson. 

I need some. Now. Three grams, pure. Not like that cut shit you gave me last night. You know who I am, you should know better than to try and get away with that. –SH

Meanwhile, at Barts Hospital, John was going about what he thought was a very normal, albeit dull, day. He thought it was a bit strange that he hadn’t had any texts from the detective, who usually contacted John at least three times a day to complain about his boredom and let John know what a useless job he held. To be honest, the doctor missed it a bit. Even if it meant he was getting more work done. He couldn’t help but chuckle fondly when he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. ‘It was only a matter of time….’ He thought to himself, giving a bemused smile as he pulled the phone out of his pocket and opened the text. And immediately his heart dropped. No. Oh no. Matter of time, indeed. John Watson was no idiot. He knew this text hadn’t been intended for him, and he knew there were very few things that Sherlock purchased over text in grams. He felt sick with anger and disappointment, stomach acidic with an almost hateful worry for his friend. His voice shook as he explained to Sarah that he needed to leave due to an emergency, and he nearly tripped on the front steps of Baker Street due to the sudden, stabbing pain in his leg. 

It was actually ten, perhaps fifteen, minutes before Sherlock realized what he had done. The mistake he had made. And immediately a nausea-inducing sense of regret and dread washed over him like a wave of heavy, poisonous lead. It filled his eyes and mouth and ears and left him feeling like he was drowning. John knew. He’d been so careful, tried so hard to keep his relapse a secret from John. He’d first used last night, in the privacy of his bedroom while John was on a date. He was practiced in hiding the symptoms of drug use, and John hadn’t seemed to notice anything wrong when he left for work this morning. And now, in one moment of carelessness, he’d ruined that. John knew, and he was going to leave him. That’s what they always did. Sherlock had, once again, let down someone who cared about him, and the consequence would be losing his best and only friend. Losing the man who had become to him more vital than oxygen. Sherlock threw his phone against the wall, screaming aloud and tearing at his hair in frustration. He didn’t even bother to resend the text to his dealer. That didn’t matter right now. He knew, deep down, that some tiny part of him desperately wanted John to come home, swoop in and stop him from shooting up again. Like some kind of ridiculous White Knight. But this isn’t a fairy tale, and the needle sitting on the arm of the sofa is no dragon. Or at least not one that he knew how to slay. Eventually he decided that no, John could not see him like this. He wouldn’t let the most important person in his world see him in his lowest possible state. He’d leave Baker Street. Just long enough to get another dose, to be able to cope with John’s anger and resentment and eventually abandonment. He couldn’t face a life without John and be sober at the same time. He’d just go to Victor. That would make everything better. Shaking hands opened the front door, and suddenly he was brought face to face with the very man that he was trying to avoid. 

“Sherlock?” John gasped, staring as he took in the shocked, frightened visage of his flatmate. The man looked worse than he’d ever seen him; panicked, pale, exhausted, and….. Strung out. He looked strung out, John realized, taking a sharp breath through his nose and gritting his teeth. Sherlock reached out with shaking fingertips, as if to touch John’s face, but pulled his hand away at the last moment as if burned. “John… I never meant… You weren’t supposed to….” He felt as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs, and the fire in his belly extinguished with tar. “I…” He abandoned his apology before the words even properly formed on his tongue, and he dropped his eyes in shame, trying to push his way past the doctor. But John, who had so far been silently trying to reign in his anger, suddenly lashed out and firmly grabbed Sherlock by his bicep, perhaps slightly harder than intended. “You are not going anywhere.” He said with an almost eerie calm. “Up to the flat. Now. 

Oh no. The Doctor voice. The I-was-in-the-army-and-am-not-afraid-to-show-it voice. He knew he was in trouble now. Sherlock nodded mutely and followed John up the stairs to the flat, sitting on the sofa to await reprimanding, eyes downcast like a child caught playing with matches. His hand began subconsciously scratching at the veins on his arm, craving the needle and the sweet release that would follow. John closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath. He wanted to shout and scream at Sherlock for being such an idiot, but he’d dealt with addicts before and knew that wouldn't to any good. "I don't even know what to say…" He admitted, voice cracking as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. "That's a first-" Sherlock cut himself off the moment the words left his mouth. Stupid stupid stupid. He knew that would come off as an insult and now was most definitely not the time for that kind of rubbish. He winced, hoping against hope that John hadn't heard that.

"Bloody hell, fuck this!" John snapped. His hands were shaking now and he clenched them into fists at his side. "I tried to keep calm, really I did. But what the fuck were you thinking?" Sherlock put his hands on either side of his head, rubbing his temples as he tried to abate some of the vicious pressure that was building there. "I wasn't, John. It was an impulse-" “Do not give me that!” John shouted at him, having to lean against a chair when his leg threatened to give out on him. “We all have impulses, Sherlock! We all have bloody impulses! For example, I have impulses to punch you in the face. Right now. But do I? No! Well, maybe I ought to…” He took a deep breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “John, I’m—“ Sherlock broke off as a new kind of discomfort overcame him. Nausea ripped through his body like a white hot blade but as he rose to go to the bathroom, the world went black. He was vaguely aware of his head hitting the floor before everything collapsed into nothingness.

"Sherlock!" John immediately dropped to his knees next to Sherlock, his hand gently sliding over his head as he checked for injuries. He wasn't bleeding but a small bump was forming, and he’d broken out in a cold sweat. The detective was clearly deep in the throws of withdrawal. It was an ugly process, but one John had seen before and on he didn’t doubt Sherlock had plenty of experience with. They could get through this. He’d feel like hell for several days, but if he could make it through the worst of it, then he could get on his way to sobriety again. Despite this relapse, John found himself genuinely believing him. He had faith, as he always had, in the mad detective. "Sherlock?" He murmured, more gently now, cradling him in his arms.

When the world started to fade back, coming into view with watercolor visuals and cubist shapes, Sherlock was aware of warm, strong arms holding him and a gentle voice talking to him. Sherlock tried desperately to pull himself back to consciousness. Something in his mind began to panic, thinking for some reason that he was dying. This was ridiculous, of course. He’d been at deaths door before, and he knew what it felt like. But the panic ensued nonetheless. He couldn't die. Not now. He had to tell John. Tell John what he had always needed to tell him. Tell him that he loved him. Sherlock was unaware of exactly how much of this he was saying aloud, but it was actually quite a bit.

"Hush, Sherlock you're babbling, and I don't understand a word of it... It’s okay, you don’t need to say anything… " John said softly, all his anger flushed away by the sickening worry he felt for his friend. Sherlock was speaking complete nonsense. Proper words mixed into nonsensical sentences, punctuated with unintelligible groans and mumbles. And a few words that leaped out at John. Logically, he knew it was drug-induced madness, but maybe there was a glimmer of truth there? No, he couldn't let himself hope. Not now. Now was not the time for hopeless romantic pining. Back to business. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. He touched Johns face with one shaking hand. John thought he saw tears in Sherlock's eyes; something virtually unheard of. But the glimpse was gone as quickly as it appeared.

Sherlock bolted upright and was rewarded with immediate dizziness. The hellish craving returned with a vengeance and suddenly it was all he could think about. He had been thinking about John, but what about John? A thought suddenly struck him; Sedatives. John must have some. He’s a doctor, of course he has some. Or at least access to some. It wasn't cocaine, but it would do as a cheap substitute to get him through the worst of the withdrawal. He whirled around to face John, ignoring the persistent nausea. "John, you have- you have to have- I need-" He growled in frustration at his inability to form coherent sentences. John let his finger smooth through Sherlock’s hair and over his cheekbones, trying to calm him down. "Shhh. Stay here, you're still feeling dizzy. When you think you are ready to get up, I'll help you get to bed so you can sleep it off." "NO! I don't want to sleep it out, John, I need..." He trailed off and leaned his head against Johns shoulder. "You won't give me anything, will you?" He murmured in disdain. "No, I won't." John said a bit bitterly, but kept stroking Sherlock's cheek with his finger in an attempt to sooth the craving addict. Sherlock breathed a heavy sigh, pouting. "That's infuriating, you realize." Sherlock sighed, nibbling on Johns fingertips without realizing what he was doing.

"I think you're confused," John murmured, with a confused glanced to flatmate. "You think you can get up? We can settle you on the couch then." He wanted to get Sherlock up from the floor, and maybe give him some water and let him sleep out the aftermath of his high. Sherlock stood up shakily, one hand on Johns waist to steady himself. As he settled on the couch he looked up at John. "Why do you think I'm confused? I'm perfectly fine..." John just shook his head, frustrated with the one-track mind of the addict before him. He sighed and let his hand slide through Sherlock's wild curls before he turned away. "Let me get you some water." Sherlock groaned and fell back against the couch, his eyes glazed over with the lingering effects of the drugs. "I don't want water….” He said quietly, covering his eyes against the harsh light. John sighed, setting a glass of water on the coffee table. “Just a sip. This withdrawal is going to be hell, you know that. And you’re getting no sympathy from me.” John said firmly, even though it wasn’t exactly true. He was furious at Sherlock, yes, and yet… It still hurt to see the detective this low and broken. It hurt him even more to imagine that Sherlock had been in such a dark place that he felt the need to use, and that he’d run to his dealer instead of to John. He hadn’t trusted him enough to come to him with his demons. His mind provided dozens of neurological facts about the physical ramifications of addiction, and he knew that Sherlock’s body was physically dependent on the drug at this point. But when Sherlock had shown that soft side, that hint of (was it romantic?) interest, his calm, doctor-like demeanor had dissolved, leaving him confused and with a curious ache in his chest. He had always harbored feelings for Sherlock that went far beyond friendship, but had never dared to hope that the detective returned the sentiment. So now, instead of clinging to that impossible dream, he dismissed Sherlock's behavior as delirium and went about making some tea.

Sherlock watched John leave with sad eyes, feeling his resolve weaken and his hands begin to shake. This was getting him nowhere. Addiction was an endless spiral, with no end in sight, and he knew that. And yet… he had no clue what to do. For once the great detective was at a complete loss. His usually organized mind palace had descended into madness, the contents strewn everywhere. Nothing was in its proper place, with drugs taking obscene priorities over John. John. The doctor, his doctor, was usually first and foremost in his mind, but he was currently losing this battle. He remembered the days of addiction, the days before God or the Fates or whatever powers that be had had pity on him and sent John into his life. They were days of bitter hatred and pain dispersed intermittently between frighteningly euphoric highs. He didn't want to go back to that dark time, mostly because he knew that if he did, he would lose the one person who mattered more than any drug.


End file.
